


From New Year To Now

by khazadspoon



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Slice of Life, commission, fluff and comfort, trans james
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 05:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khazadspoon/pseuds/khazadspoon
Summary: They meet at a New Year’s Eve party. Francis doesn’t want to be there, but it has become one of the social events he is forced to attend by James Ross and his lovely wife Ann. He is badgered each year to get dressed, put on a smile even if it’s fake, and join in with the world for a night. For a few years he got a midnight kiss from Sophia before they parted ways, finally understanding one another in no uncertain terms. And though it is painful at first, Francis is grateful for their parting. Sophia is far happier living a life without his interference, without his alcoholic crutch, without the uncertainty of his career.But as 2010 drew to a close, Francis made the delightful acquaintance of a man he hated on first sight. James Fitzjames was beautiful and loud and drew the eye of everyone in the room. His pretty lips and pretty eyes make Francis sneer. The ridiculous stories of his gap year in China, the hiking trip across half the bloody world, the time he got shot in China… It all serves to make Francis think he’s a colossal prick.





	From New Year To Now

They meet at a New Year’s Eve party. Francis doesn’t want to be there, but it has become one of the social events he is forced to attend by James Ross and his lovely wife Ann. He is badgered each year to get dressed, put on a smile even if it’s fake, and join in with the world for a night. For a few years he got a midnight kiss from Sophia before they parted ways, finally understanding one another in no uncertain terms. And though it is painful at first, Francis is grateful for their parting. Sophia is far happier living a life without his interference, without his alcoholic crutch, without the uncertainty of his career. 

But as 2010 drew to a close, Francis made the  _ delightful _ acquaintance of a man he hated on first sight. James Fitzjames was beautiful and loud and drew the eye of everyone in the room. His pretty lips and pretty eyes make Francis sneer. The ridiculous stories of his gap year in China, the hiking trip across half the bloody world, the time he got  _ shot  _ in China… It all serves to make Francis think he’s a colossal prick. 

They end up in a fist fight at 1am on the first of January. Ross is furious, Ann is disappointed, and to make it worse even  _ Thomas  _ thinks it was a bad idea. When he closets himself away for a week without talking to anyone Thomas breaks his door and fights with him. 

Two weeks later Francis enrolls in the closes Alcoholics Anonymous programme and starts seeing a psychiatrist (through the NHS, and thank God for that or he’d be out on his arse with no money). He is three months sober when he meets Fitzjames again. 

Ross has invited him to dinner to celebrate his sobriety. There is no alcohol in the house, and Ann kisses his cheek and tells him she’s proud of him. 

“Now,” Ross says calmly, “I’ve invited someone you weren’t exactly  _ friendly  _ with last time you were here. So please, try not to punch him this time.”

Francis promises. He is practically a pussycat these days without the whisky to fuel his moods. And though he’s nervous to meet the man, one of the things he has been doing is apologising to everyone his behaviour has impacted in the last few years. When James walks in, as tall and beautiful as he had been that cold night on the cusp of the year, Francis steels himself against the nerves in his stomach.

He makes eye contact with Fitzjames and stands, takes the man’s hand in his own and apologises for his behaviour. Something soft and  _ shy  _ crosses James’ face as he accepts the apology. 

It’s the nicest dinner Francis has been to for years. When James says he’d like to keep in touch, Francis drops his phone in his haste to get the thing out of his pocket. 

A week later they meet for coffee and Francis realises he might,  _ might _ , like James more than he had expected. James is enraptured by his story about visiting the Arctic with Ross a few years before, and he asks questions and takes note of the details Francis gives with an honest interest that makes Francis’ chest feel tight. Francis pays for the drinks and is about to ask what James is doing at the weekend when James himself asks if Francis would like to meet again, for dinner this time. 

They have Italian. There is a candle on the table, the waiter asks if they wish to see the wine list and James deflects with a simple grace and asks for water. He orders ginger beer and shares the meager bottle with Francis, all while smiling with that damned pretty mouth of his. 

“I like you,” James utters between courses. He’s ordered tiramisu and Francis is waiting for a sorbet. 

“I… like you too.”

He’s still blushing when the dessert is placed in front of him. They split the bill and walk shoulder to shoulder to where Francis has parked. James is getting a taxi. 

“Would you like to come for coffee?” Francis asks, not wanting the evening to end. 

Something like fear crosses James’ face. “No- no I can’t. I’d  _ like  _ to, but I can’t.”

Francis tries not to look disappointed. But James kisses his cheek goodnight and promises to call him. 

The phone buzzes an hour and a half later and Francis sees James’ name pop up, dives over the edge of the sofa to pick the slippery thing up and press the green icon. 

“James? Are you-”

“I’ve got to tell you something.” He sounds nervous, a tremor in his voice audible through the tinny speaker. 

“Alright.”

And James, in a sudden rush of words, tells Francis why he couldn’t come for coffee. He tells Francis he is transgender, that he is used to men (and women) deciding not to date him because of this, and how some decide not to be  _ friends  _ because of this. He describes how the evening with Francis had been wonderful and he would adore to keep seeing Francis in any form of relationship, but if who he is would make that an impossibility he’d rather know sooner or later. 

Francis is, for a moment, dumbfounded. He makes movements with his mouth that don’t translate into sound. Then he takes a shallow breath that does nothing to still the rampant beat of his heart. 

“Thank you,” he says, “for telling me. I don’t know how scared that must have made you feel, to tell me but thank you. And it doesn’t change how I feel about you; I’d still very much like to see you again.”

There is an audible sigh of relief. When James speaks again, Francis can hear the amused twist of his lips. “Does that mean I can come up for coffee next time?”

“I’d like nothing more.”

* * *

 

He feels as nervous as a virgin the first time James stays the night. He can tell from the darting glances, the shy smile and the ever so slight tremor in James’ hands that he is just as frightened, if not moreso. 

“You don’t need to,” Francis says as James tugs him into a kiss that is equal parts gentle and rough. Teeth nip at Francis’ lips, a long and firm body presses to his chest and there is a pounding in his chest almost too much to bear. “I want you to be comf-”

James rolls his eyes and begins to unbutton Francis’ shirt. “I  _ want _ ,” he starts, punctuating the word with a scratch of blunt nails down Francis’ chest, “to see you naked. I  _ want _ ,” the shirt is pulled off and James reaches for his own, “to have you see  _ me  _ naked.”

And what could he say to that?

Naked, James is a revelation. His skin is tan, unblemished but for the scars few scars. There is the bullet wound from China, of course, and Francis has heard that story in full without the embellishments twice since they met. Then, below his nipples are two scars - they are faded, well healed, but Francis knows what they are. He doesn’t know where to touch, doesn’t know what might offend or disturb. 

“You-” he starts, then licks his lips and reaches out to run a hand down James’ arm. “What do you like?” 

James takes his hand and draws them into an embrace. He presses chest to chest, their hips flush and the sudden pressure against his crotch makes Francis shudder. James kisses his neck and nips lightly at his earlobe. 

“I like being  _ touched _ , Francis,” he whispers. “Here…” He guides Francis’ hand to his belt. Francis unclips it and watches the weight drag James’ slacks to the floor.  There is a bulge in the front of his briefs and for a moment Francis doesn’t know what to do. There have been so few men in his life and James is  _ special  _ to him, what if he-

Again, patiently and gently, James takes his hand. Beneath the fabric of James’ briefs is a silicone shape, James removes it and encourages Francis to touch and explore. 

“This would be easier if we were at least sitting down,” Francis manages to squeak out, his blood rushing north and south all at once. His own prick has begun to ache just from  _ feeling  _ how much James wants him. And it is somehow curious to feel both wetness and hardness under his fingers. 

James lays on the bed spread out and shameless, knowing he is beautiful and wanting  _ Francis _ to know it too. And Francis does. He sees the beauty of James’ slightly tanned skin, sees his hair like a dark halo about his head, see that beautiful area between his thighs that Francis wants to know  _ intimately.  _ When he sits on the bed and runs his hands over James’ thighs, the man shivers and lets out a ragged breath. 

He uses his mouth, tastes James and teases him, feels his pulse begin to race where Francis’ hands grip his thighs, feels the muscles tense and quiver. When James comes it is with a strained cry that is music to Francis’ ears. He groans along with the man under his tongue and keeps going, lost in the way James arches against him. 

“Stop! Stop, come here-” Hands tug at his hair and Francis ends up sprawled over James’ chest. They kiss and Francis can’t help the strangled moan that drips from his lips as James’ hand circles his cock and tugs. 

_ “Fuck- _ ” he grunts, hips rolling into James’ grip. 

The man himself smiles and kisses his cheek. “That’s it,” he whispers. The gentle tone and the way James cradles him makes goosebumps break out on Francis’ skin. He shivers again, hips jerking as James works him to a blinding orgasm that rips from him like a gunshot. 

Later, when they have cooled and calmed to the point where stillness is a choice and not a need, James curls around Francis like a blanket. His breath is warm on Francis’ crown, his hands warmer where they hold his own. Francis wonders if this will last - surely he’s not done anything to deserve it, considering how he’s treated the people he loves, but… 

James is still there in the morning. He kisses Francis’ cheeks, slides down his body and under the sheets to suck him off, and Francis is blindsided by the laughter bursting from his mouth when James comes back up for air. 

“What?” James asks, flushed pink and  _ beautiful _ in the morning glow. 

Francis shakes his head and kisses him deeply. “It’s a nice way to wake up, is all.”

Hands tug him up, lead him to the bathroom. “You can return the favour later.”

\---

Years pass by in a blur. There are arguments, family bereavements, changes in circumstances, but James is a constant throughout. They move into James’ two-bed flat after a year and adjust to life that suddenly includes another person. 

Francis meets new friends, people he had never known before James. He gets involved in James’ fundraising activities for the LGBT community. He learns how to deliver injections to help James with his hormones. He also learns how to cook eggs other than scrambled or fried. 

When their bed breaks they go to Ikea.

“How the  _ fuck  _ do you even say this,” Francis hisses, peering suspiciously at the label. 

James takes one look, raises one ridiculously pretty eyebrow (and Francis will never stop calling him pretty, no matter how many wrinkles and age spots they both get) and says - “Björksnäs.” Simple as that. No stumbling over accents, just says it as though he’s fluent in Swedish. Francis stares at him for a moment before laughing and shrugging it off. 

They get lost in the vast swathes of carpet and curtain. Francis wants to hide in one of the show rooms and drags James in with him, sneaks a kiss beneath a skymningen (which of course James can pronounce as well). 

It takes them an hour to assemble it. They christen it with vigor, James using that wonderful contraption Francis learns is a strap-on and making Francis’ toes curl. 

* * *

 

Francis has proposed to one person before, though two times too many. He wants this one to be  _ right. _

The ring is an antique, made by a Brazilian artist. It’s just flashy enough for James’ taste without being  _ too  _ expensive. He shows it to James’ best friend, Henry, and watches the man’s face light up. 

“He’ll  _ love  _ it,” Henry says softly. 

He proposes on a Thursday night. James is half asleep at first, their cat curled up on his lap and a book slowly falling from his hand. When Francis gets his attention he perks up. At the possibly constipated look on Francis’ face he sits up straight and puts the book aside. 

“Francis?” He asks, “what is it?”

Francis drops to one knee in front of their ridiculously old sofa and James’ breath catches. 

“You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known. And, if it weren’t for you, I’d have drunk myself into an early grave. I want to always be by your side, to lift you when you’re down and warm you when you’re cold. Will you marry me?”

Tears begin to slip down James’ cheeks and he quickly pushes the cat from his lap, tipping forward and tackling Francis to the floor with a booming laugh. 

He whispers “yes” between kisses, both of them too caught up in their happiness to even think about putting the ring on his finger. 


End file.
